


Unsteady

by Karks55



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 08:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11227623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karks55/pseuds/Karks55
Summary: John Watson has lived a life in which death was always just around the corner. When Sherlock has taken a leap off of the roof of Bart's hospital, what is to become of John?





	Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story!!! I apologize for any spelling errors as I typed this in my phone(my laptop is out of commission as of late) but I'll try to fix any that I notice at a later date or are pointed out to me. This is my first fanfiction so I'd love any constructive criticism! I hope you enjoy it!

It was no surprise to him that this was how his life would draw to a close; prematurely at the business end of a gun. What was slightly new was that the hand wrapped around the gun was his own. This was long overdue though, put on the back burner after he had been enchanted by the clever wit of a certain consulting detective. He had been dancing with death since the day he entered this world, which happened to be the day his mother had left it.  
He had been raised by an abusive father in a small home with his sister, who had discovered the relief of alcohol at 15 years of age. He had then launched himself into his medical studies at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, after which he entered the army as a medic, though he soon became just as proficient with a gun as he was with a scalpel. Many would call him deranged, but he thrived in the army, the constant rush serving as a means to retain his fragile grip on his sanity. Then he was shot, and his delicate grip slipped. He found himself in a minuscule bedsit in London with barley a penny to his name, a change of clothes and his gun. A gun which he had nearly used to end his desolate existence before he met Sherlock. With Sherlock, it was as if he was returned to the battlefield; chasing after murderers and examining crime scenes. And now, here he was once again, ready to pull the trigger to end his meaningless life.   
Sherlock had been a perfect distraction while he had lasted, but with the man's untimely demise John supposed his own time was up as well. It truly was a shame to loose Sherlock, he was a brilliant man; caring though he refused to show it, he could have accomplished amazing things had he not taken a stroll off of the roof of St. Bart's. John could understand though, with a mind so advanced as Sherlock's, he must have felt as though he were living amongst ants. John, however, had been hoping that he would stay, that he could lean on Sherlock and his cases for just a while longer, but it was not to be.   
So here he sat, gun clenched between his teeth as he mulled over the uselessness of his existence. He could never return to the army due to the bullet wound in his shoulder, could couldn't return to being a surgeon because of the tremor his shoulder wound had caused, and there was no consulting detective to follow about as if he were a lost puppy. This was it for him, he was no longer needed nor was he wanted, as most all of his friends or family were either drunk or dead, and like hell was he about to allow himself to become more of a burden than he already was.  
With his resolve solidified, his index finger began to tighten on the gun's trigger. A fraction of a second later and he was on the ground with a heavy weight on top of him and his gun thrown across the room. "If you're going to attempt to stop someone from committing suicide, don't throw a loaded gun that has its safety off across the room," John stated coldly, frustrated that his death had been delayed yet again. "Well maybe in the future you should not attempt suicide, idiot," a strikingly familiar voice replied. John's eyes widened for a moment before closing again with a resigned sigh. The weight on top of him shifted minutely in a manner far too for the man pinning John to the floor. " You best have a bloody good explanation for this, Sherlock." "And you as well, John."


End file.
